Engineman - Eric Brown [192]
Outside, the city extended in a never-ending, jewelled stretch. The million coruscating points of light might have indicated as many foci of evil that night - but we were away from it all up here and I had Joe Gomez. I could hardly control my shaking.
Then it came to me how close he'd been to annihilation, and I broke down. "You stupid, stupid bastard," I cried.
"Look, Sita - that's your name, isn't it?" He was bemused and embarrassed. He'd caught bits of me as I rushed him out, and he knew he owed me. "Who were those guys?"
"Who? Just your funeral directors, is who." My tears were tears of relief now. "They were pirates in the scrape-tape industry. I overheard them before I got your vibes."
"So? I could have been a star."
"Yeah, a dead star, kid. Not many ways you can be killed nowadays, but they would've killed you dead."
His tan disappeared and he looked sick. "But I thought the industry was legal? I've seen personatapes on sale in the marts-"
His naivety amazed me. "The personatape side of the thing is legal. They makes tapes of the famous, or how they think the famous might have been. But these pirates make personatapes of real people by squeezing fools like you dry. You're so good you gave me raptures, and they wanted that." And I was already wanting to snatch my shield away from him, wanting more...
He stared at his drink. He didn't seem very convinced.
"Listen, kid. You know what they'd've done to you if I hadn't happened along? They'd've killed you and taken your corpse to their workshop. They can scrape stiffs, and they're easier to handle - don't struggle. Then these guys, these pirates... they'd open your skull and go in deep and scrape the cerebellum, leaving your nervous system wrung out and fucked up. They'd get more than just emotions, they'd get everything. They'd rob you of your very self just to make a few fast creds, and then dump your body. And there'd be nothing no rep-surgeon could do to put you back together. You'd be dead. The only place you'd exist is on tape and as a ghost in the heads of non-telepaths who want the sensation of experiencing other states of being without having the operation."
I took a long drink then, angry with him. "And keep that shield. I want you to stay alive. Consider it a present."
"Thanks," he said.
"For chrissake!" I exploded. "Where the hell do you usually drop? Don't you know what a shield is for?"
"I work a line out of Lhasa, Kathmandu, Gorakpur... They're quiet cities. I never really needed a shield there. This is my first time here..." He avoided my eyes and gazed out at the city.
"Yeah, well - think on next time. This isn't no third world dive. This is for real. Mean City Central where you have to think to survive."
He nodded, sipped his drink.
I cooled. "Where you from, Joe?"
"Seville, Europe. You?"
"Chittagong, what was onetime Bangladesh. China now."
His gaze lingered on my tattoo. Then he saw the face on the back of my hand. "Your husband?"
I laughed. "Hey, Mr Innocent - you never seen one of these before?" I waved my hand around theatrically. "This guy's my boss. He owns me. I'm indentured to him for another ten years."
"I never realised..."
"No, well you wouldn't, would you?" I glared at him, bitter. Then I smiled. I had to remind myself that I had a Mr-Nice-Guy here, who was naive-for-real and wasn't playing me along.
I sighed, gave him history. "My parents sold me when I was four. They were poor and they needed the Rupees. I was one of six kids, and a girl, so I guess they didn't miss me... I checked out psi-positive when I was five and had the operation. I had no say in the matter, they just cut me and hey-presto I had the curse of ability. I was taken by an Agency, trained, and sold to Gassner when I was six. I've been reading for small cred, 'gum and a bed in a slum dwelling for